


“and you can’t stand the sight of me.”

by clickingkeyboards



Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Daisy has dermatillomania, Dermatillomania, For the endlessly reassuring dear Ida, Gen, Hazel is reassuring, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: Two nights before her first important mission for the government, Daisy falls into an episode of scratching at the skin on her face, something she has done since she was young.Hazel steps in to pick up the pieces.(TW for blood!)
Relationships: Daisy Wells & Hazel Wong
Kudos: 15





	“and you can’t stand the sight of me.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonelyheartsclub_com](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyheartsclub_com/gifts).



For as long as I remember, I have torn at my skin. When upset or stressed or simply  _ bored _ , I dig my fingers into my skin and pick at non-existent injuries until they materialise beneath my hands in the form of split skin and blood and horrid things under my nails.

It is an unpleasant habit, mortifying to explain and messy to clean up, one that leaves scars about my chest and legs, across my shoulders and on the insides of my thighs. Scars that, one day, Amina will see and hopefully not mind.

Once it starts, the itching pressure that forces me to do it, I cannot  _ stop _ until I’ve cleared away every last tiny bump and imperfection that bothers me unreasonably once I notice, instead replacing each with a small open wound that flushes my whole face pink. 

All of that is the reason why I ended up in the bathroom at Fallingford in the early morning, cleaning horrid things from under my nails and trying to blink tears of disappointment from my eyes — I had been doing so well, not even touching the horrid cut on my brow that I received when I was knocked unconscious. All forgotten in an episode of reckless panic about disguises and masquerading as somebody quite different on my first mission for the government.

My face would be scarred on that mission. We were leaving only the following day.

When I finished cleaning my nails — they were still stained red and looked peculiar — I pressed my hands to my face and pulled away at the stinging feeling to see spots of blood that I had blotted with my palms all over my skin. I tried to turn on my tap but my hand slipped and smudged the mirror with blood, and I looked up at myself. 

I looked as if something had eaten away at my face, and there was blood all throughout my hairline and drying in the strands that usually framed my face. Taking a steadying breath, I tried to wipe away the worst of it with my hands to no avail, only shrugging it and making myself look like the most terrifying ghoul.

Though I am ashamed to admit it, my breaths came erratically when I regarded the extent of what I had managed in a fit of anxiety, and the door opening made me jump.

“Daisy?” Hazel called. She was wearing her nightclothes and her eyes were tired, rather long hair falling over her shoulders. When the clouds cleared from the situation, she gasped. “Oh,  _ Daisy _ .”

I would never admit this to dear Hazel, who would hate to know that she had frightened me, but I felt dreadfully scared of her in that moment. What would she say? Would she be disgusted? Would she ask questions? I hoped that she wouldn’t, because I didn’t know how to answer.

Hazel, clever as always, took one look at my burning face and seemed to make a choice. “You poor thing!” she said, her voice wobbling. “Sit down, I’ll clean your face for you.”

Rather astonished, which is unusual for me, I sat down on the toilet and watched as Hazel fluttered about the room, waving her hands and picking up something to pin my hair back with, taking a cloth from the cabinet, finding the little first aid box, and grabbing a pot of cream that looked like it could be used to apply to the face. Hazel read the label three times to make absolutely sure that it would not poison me.

“Bathroom products have a lot of  _ things _ in them for something that’s going to go on your body,” she said, setting it on the side of the sink. “Don’t you think?”

“They all seem dangerous,” I agreed. “It would make a dreadfully good mystery, especially if it looked accidental.”

Hazel is usually perturbed by those sorts of comments, but she nodded and replied, “Poirot mystery?”

“Yes!” I replied, taking the offered clip and pinning back my hair. I am able to do it in an interesting way that involves twisting my hair and flicking it into the clip perfectly, and Hazel had begged me to teach her how to do it several times. When I remembered that, I resolved to show her how to do it the next morning. 

Wetting the cloth in the sink, she squished out some of the water and said, “Sorry if this hurts.”

It did. It hurt a lot. I was careful not to voice it, because Hazel was being remarkably gentle dragging the cloth over my face, muttering apologies as she took it across my cheeks and under my chin, catching the wounds on my neck too. I felt cared for in a very delicate way, and had to close my eyes because looking into hers made me feel a barrage of rather inconvenient emotions.

Hazel put plasters over the worst of the places I had picked, mumbling, “Sorry, Daisy, sorry!” as she did so.

“Stop apologising,” I replied as she placed one on my jaw, and she laughed. 

“There.” She pulled her hands back. “I’ll leave the others uncovered.”

After a pause, her on her knees on the cold times and my hands touching each plaster, she asked, “Why do you do it, Daisy?”

I shrugged, and tears pricked in my eyes. “I don’t know. It just… happens when I’m worried. Always has.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “It seems unpleasant. Can I…?” Awkwardly, she held out her arms.

When I nodded fiercely, she scrambled to her feet and pulled me up, wrapping her arms around my middle. “You are still very pretty indeed, Daisy. And, because I can tell what you’re thinking, Amina will think so too.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, as if my voice was lost somewhere deep in my throat.

When I looked in the mirror, I did not look like somebody else: a ghoul, a horror, a bloody spectre from a book. Instead, I was Daisy Wells with plasters on her face. 


End file.
